


murmur

by smallredboy



Series: spoken word [2]
Category: House M.D.
Genre: (although not to wilson), Alcohol, Bisexual Greg House, Bisexual Robert Chase, Coming Out, Drug Use, Guilt, Human Disaster Greg House, Implied Sexual Content, Internalized Homophobia, M/M, Mistaken for Being in a Relationship, Pining, Season/Series 02, Shame, one instance of homophobic language
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-03-12
Updated: 2019-03-12
Packaged: 2019-11-16 08:29:41
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,607
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18090923
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/smallredboy/pseuds/smallredboy
Summary: House deals with the after-effects of knowing he's bisexual. One of the biggest ones— trying to come out to Wilson.





	murmur

**Author's Note:**

> its been two months but finally, i got this out of my system.
> 
> it probably is better read with reading the first installment beforehand, but it can work as a stand-alone!
> 
> enjoy!

House wakes up to the shower running.

He hasn’t gotten used to this new life at all, to being with Wilson while he deals with his impending divorce. Wilson is living with him— they go to work together, they leave together, it’s like they’re joined at the hip but nothing ever happens between them apart from their  _ friendship _ .

He moves around his bed, trying to get a more comfortable position so he can fall asleep again, so he can’t overthink like usual. Ever since he took one too many Vicodin, he’s fallen into a slightly deeper pit than before. Now he knows he’s bisexual, and he knows he’s perhaps in love with his best friend, and he knows that he can’t bring male hookers in anymore because Wilson would  _ know _ .

And Wilson knowing— the mere idea sends him into a cold sweat, into panic. Wilson knowing would mean their friendship would be stained forever, if not outright broken up. All the gay jokes directed at them suddenly would make Wilson look at him questioningly, every time he said anything even kind of a compliment towards Wilson he’d ask if he’s hitting on him. Everything would be ruined forever, and he’d have no one to fall back on. No friend to fall back on. No one wants to do anything with him except for Wilson— and if Wilson knew, he’d have no one.

He’s interrupted out of his thoughts by the sound of the shower being turned off, and then a click heard from the bathroom. He moves around and groans a little— is the sound a toenail clipper? Is Wilson really…  _ Christ _ . A part of him wants to question Wilson’s obvious heterosexuality, but he knows it’s wishful thinking. After a while, there’s the sound of a hairdryer and he draws in a breath— he wants to rest, goddammit. But his ridiculous roommate slash best friend slash crush doesn’t want that to happen.

He stands up and clutches on his leg as he heads for the bathroom.

“You blow dry your hair?” he exclaims.

Wilson jumps a little and turns to him. “Oh sorry, did I wake you up?”   
  
“You blow dry your hair?!” he repeats, louder.

He rolls his eyes. “Excuse me for actually caring about what I look like.”   
  
“I think the word you’re looking for is obsessing,” he bites back, “You’ve been at it for almost an hour.”

Wilson gives him a toothy grin, a flippant cock of the head. “If you wanted in all you had to do was say so.”   
  
House finds himself wanting to kiss that smug grin off his face, and he’s immediately hammered by such a feeling of shame and guilt he wants to go back to sleep for the next seven hours. Wilson is stupidly attractive and he wants to kiss him so badly and he shouldn’t, he shouldn’t, he shouldn’t.

“I don’t want in,” he retorts, “I want sleep!”   


Wilson shrugs. “It’s about time you got up anyway,” he tells him, “it’s almost nine.”   


House sighs and looks at him. He wants to say a billion things— say how handsome he is, how stupid he is, how much he wants to kiss him, how ashamed he is for thinking all these things. But all that comes out is, “This isn’t gonna work.”   


“What?”   
  
He pops two Vicodin and swallows them dry, gaining a grimace from Wilson.

“You staying here.”   


And he’s being honest, in part— it’s not gonna work because eventually House will say something or do something, maybe while high, maybe while drunk, that will ruin their friendship forever and ever. And he can’t deal with the mere concept of that, so he has to do what he has to do— make Wilson leave as soon as possible.

Wilson raises his brows. “You’re kicking me out? After one night?”   


“You think we should try counseling first?” he says without thinking twice— the gay jokes come out of his mouth out of reflex at this point, but he hasn’t made one ever since his realization. A cold wave of shame hits him, but he tries his best to ignore it. “Why do you want to sleep on a couch, anyway? You have money.” He pauses. “At least until the divorce is finalized.”   


Wilson scoffs. “I’ll be out of your hair tomorrow.” He walks out of the bathroom and then turns to look at him, with a smug smile on his face. “What’s left of it.”

* * *

House is trying to figure out how to navigate his life with this newfound knowledge of him.

He finds himself staring at any man at all and a huge, crushing wave of shame hits him. He looks at Foreman’s brows furrow while he glances up at the whiteboard and House feels disgusting. He looks at Chase’s lips while he speaks with that stupid accent of his and he wants to scrub himself clean of any, any thoughts he could possibly have. Thoughts about men— he’s trying to accept them for what they are, but it’s so fucking hard.

He wishes he didn’t like men. Especially for those awkward interactions that make his guts turn around on his belly.

He thinks back to that one patient living with AIDS, who bothered him until he agreed to treat him. 

“Because you’re a closet case?”

He remembers Wilson’s brows furrowing, his lips pursed. “We’re — not together,” he had said.

As he goes through the motions of his day, he goes through those words in his mind. What if Wilson does find the idea egregious? What if Wilson would hate him if he knew? What if when he tells Wilson he leaves? What if he leaves him, what if he’s left friendless because he’s a faggot and he can’t do anything about it?

He tries to infuriate Wilson. There’s nothing like making Wilson angry, making him upset, pushing all his buttons.

There’s a special beat in his heart when he stumbles and falls, his cane letting up as he looks up at Wilson, who’s stopped walking. He’s smiling a bit, which is weird— and then it dawns on him. His heart flutters up against his chest.

“Whoa,” he says, “It’s like someone  _ filed  _ through the middle of your cane while you were sleeping.”

Wilson turns and keeps walking, and House can’t help but giggle a little to himself, his heart beating too fast and too sweet for his own liking.

* * *

Wilson means it when he says that he’s going to be out of his hair soon, by the looks of it.

It makes him incredibly nervous, to not have Wilson by his side anymore. He’s used to it in the span of two days— there’s nothing like eating breakfast with him before leaving to Princeton-Plainsboro Teaching Hospital. To bother him about the dishes. It makes him feel like they’re living the life they’re meant to lead before he remembers it’s nothing he’s going to get any time soon.

Wilson doesn’t like the idea. He’s shown it again and again. He’s not gay. He’s not bi. He has no chance of Wilson being anything more than candy for his eyes and for his hands when he’s alone.

When Wilson is asleep, he goes to check on their phone. There’s one message, from the guy he was talking about getting an apartment from. He’s explaining that someone gave a better offer and to call him when he can.

He doesn’t want Wilson to go. He knows, after all, that this is a bad choice. Wilson will have to go at some point, will have to finalize his divorce, will have to go move on. Wilson will move on, find his next girlfriend, find his next wife, find his next  _ whatever _ . And House will stay there, like always. Unmoving.

He wants to keep this fantasy of his going strong, though. For as long as possible. He’s selfish, he’s terrible, and he can deal with the guilt hitting him full force tomorrow morning.

He deletes the message, stares at Wilson’s sleeping figure, goes back to bed.

He ends up with his hand between his legs, his eyes fluttered shut.

“Wilson,” he breathes into his pillow. He can’t help but think of Wilson every time— Wilson’s legs, Wilson’s nice hands, Wilson’s arms, oh, Wilson’s pretty brown eyes. 

“Oh fuck, Wilson…”

He can’t help but thrust up into his hand, spill white all over it, thinking about his best friend. Always Wilson, always his closest friend.

He limps over to his bathroom, cleans it all up. Guilt only hits him full force when he sees Wilson’s silhouette on the sofa because of the moonlight. Shame only soaks right up into him when he sees his silhouette move against the dark and the light.

House can’t keep it bottled up. Which must be some kinda record for him, considering he’s kept so many things bottled up throughout his life. But if he doesn’t tell anyone he’s bisexual, that he likes men, he might explode.

Which is why he falls right back onto his team. Foreman must be as straight as they come. Cameron is probably a lesbian. But Chase… he knows Chase is bi. He’s talked about sleeping with guys. He’s talked about it with no cares in the world and hell, he doesn’t understand it. He doesn’t understand how he lacks any shame, any guilt.

“House,” Cameron starts, “Are you okay?”   
  
House shrugs. “Why wouldn’t I be?”   
  
“You’re off,” Foreman intercepts.

He rolls his eyes. “It’s not on your contract to worry about me.”   
  
He holds eye contact, all while Chase fiddles with his hands. “I know, House.”   


After he tells them to go do some more tests to that week’s patient, he grabs Chase’s arm.

“Stay.”   
  
“Uh,” Chase stutters out, obviously confused. “Alright.”   
  
Cameron and Foreman share a look before leaving.

“I need to tell this to someone, and you’re the best candidate.” Maybe he’s being a little paranoid, but he still closes the door and draws the curtains. He draws in a breath, and suddenly he can’t say it. He can’t say it, he can’t verbalize it. There’s a murmur in his heart and no words will come out of him.

Chase cocks a brow. “So?”   
  
House blinks. “I’m…” He can’t. “Bi,” he mumbles.

“You’re bi?”

He looks away. After a few seconds, he gives him a small nod.

Chase smiles a little. “I was sure you were one of us. No one else knows?”   
  
“Yeah, no one else knows.” House shakes his head. “A hallucination let me in on that little secret of my brain.”   
  
“Did you hallucinate you sucked Wilson off or somethin’?” Chase jokes.

He remembers Wilson’s thighs, Wilson’s hand between his legs. Wilson leaning over him, telling him he thinks he loves him. He downs a few Vicodin and resists the urge to throw up with the overwhelming sense of wrong, wrong, wrong that calls to him.

It’s normal, he tells himself, and it never works. It never quite sticks.

* * *

 

“You should come out to Wilson.”

“What if…?”   
  
“You really think Wilson of all people is homophobic? That guy’s an all-loving Messiah.”   
  
House takes a bite of his French fries. It’s not a weird incident to go to a bar at night for him, so Wilson won’t suspect he’s there talking with Chase. “He’d probably say that wouldn’t be very Jewish of him.”   


Chase rolls his eyes. “House, just do it. If he doesn’t like it, he doesn't like it. He’ll move on. It’s Wilson. You two have been friends for twenty years.”

House takes another bite and looks at Chase. After a few seconds, he starts, “He won’t move on because of a very obvious component of me coming out you seem to be  _ missing _ , useless twink.”   


Chase blushes and then stares, and his eyes light up. “You’re in love with your straight best friend.”   
  
House waves a hand around. “He does paint his toenails. But that’s as gay as he gets.”   
  
“You never know, dude.” Chase takes a sip of his beer. “You do seem like your gaydar is broken.”   


“It’s not,” he says with mock offense, “I’m superb at spotting gays.”

Chase raises a brow at him, judging him before saying, “Then do you know that Foreman is gay as fuck?”

House drops his glass and Chase laughs earnestly, smiling smugly at him.

* * *

House tries to come out to Wilson. Really, he does.

 

First, they’re watching monster trucks. They both have their feet on the coffee table, they’re both tired and not talking much, and House is trying to formulate the courage to actually verbalize it to Wilson. I’m bisexual, he thinks so hard he’s sure Wilson might acquire mind-reading powers just because of that.

“Wilson,” he starts, swallowing all his fear and shame down. “I wanted to say something.”   
  
Wilson hums, not even looking at him. “What do you want?”   
  
“It’s…” He closes his eyes and rubs his temple, but it doesn’t stop Wilson from not caring. He can’t say it, as much as he wants to. There’s something terrifying about it, about the mere notion of being so open to Wilson. Sure, he already knows his life story like the back of his hand— but this is too much, somehow. Too vulnerable.

“Well?” Wilson says, turning to face him.

Fear goes through every corner of his body. “Nothing, I was just thinking about rewatching Real Housewives of New Jersey,” is what his brain comes up with instead of coming out.

Wilson rolls his eyes, doesn’t seem to smell the lying, and stands up to grab their DVDs.

 

Second, he’s high. Taken a bit too many Vicodin, sprawled out on the floor before Wilson even comes home.

“ _ Wilsooooon _ ,” he whines, all annoying. “I needed to say that I…”   
  
“Yeah?” Wilson says dejectedly, hanging up his coat.

Even with the haze of being high and the lack of inhibition it provides, he still can’t spell it out. He still can’t say it.

He settles for, “I like you.”

Wilson turns to him. “I know.”   
  
He pretends he’s saying what he wants to hear, he pretends Wilson is in love with him.

When he stumbles back onto bed, Wilson keeping an eye on him until he gets a little soberer, he still gets off. He still whimpers into his pillow, and he can hear Wilson walking through the apartment. His best friend is awake and he’s still getting off, getting off to him.

Third, he doesn’t even try.

There’s a small uncomfortable moment with an older woman, them walking down the street to head to the bar and her congratulating them on their relationship.  _ There’s nothing like seeing gays like me have this confidence _ , she says with a wide smile, a few teeth missing.

Wilson shakes his head. “We’re not in a relationship, ma’am.”   


_I wish_ , House thinks, again and again, _I wish we were._

“Oh!” she exclaims. “I’m so sorry.” But she looks at House, and it’s like she can read him; like she knows. But she doesn’t say anything, just keeps walking, leaves them. 

Wilson looks at him and laughs a little awkwardly before heading to the bar.

“Y’know, that woman…” House starts after a few drinks.

“Yeah?” Wilson asks, tilting his head.

_I wish she was right_ , he thinks, but instead, he says, “She was really weird.”   


Wilson shrugs. “It’s a common occurrence with us two at this point.”   
  
He closes his eyes, takes another sip of scotch. “You’ve got a point.”

He gives up after the third attempt, and keeps his thoughts locked up on a chest he only opens when he’s at a bar with no one else than Chase.


End file.
